The phone rang at noon.

The wife and I were still in bed, this being a holiday with no plans, at least not until evening. She was working on the crossword puzzle, and I was laying beside her, my left hand under the covers trying persistently to distract her from her puzzle.

Since she hadn't written down a single letter for some time, I think it was working.

That, and she who almost never swears uttering a frustrated "Damn!" when the phone rang.

The call was dispatch. Reporting a report of a coyote on the Interstate at milepost 242.

Attacking cars.

Apparently charging out onto the asphalt to attack vehicles as they whizzed by at 75 mph.

Now that's something totally new to me, and to the dispatcher as well. All sorts of possibilities go through my mind. A canid crazed by distemper, or rabies? Or more likely, clipped on the head by a vehicle and no longer quite in the same world as the rest of us? It also occurred to me that it might possibly be someone's lost pet, not a coyote at all, and doing the usual doggy thing of chasing cars.

I'm on my way. Although it took 13 minutes to get dressed and out the door, whilst preventing heelers from doing the same.

I was on the overpass, ready to make a left turn and buzz down the highway for 20 miles when dispatch called over the radio. A patrolman was on the scene.

"The coyote is a carcass, now," she reported, a slight touch of sadness to her voice.

All my possibilities went to zero in an instant. Or one. No point in burning gas just to see a squished coyote. I coasted across the overpass and made a u-turn on the road on the other side.